The Worst

I have an uncanny ability to remember the awkward, embarrassing or negative things that I do or say. It's not that I can't recall positive things-- I do. The problem is that I remember the less positive with amazing and excruciating detail.

Am I alone in this, or is this just human nature? Do you remember every time you've accidentally said something that was taken the wrong way? Do you remember the mistakes more often than you reminisce about the victories?

I'm sitting in a hotel bar in New York (more on that later), and at any given moment I could bring to mind a hundred arguments that went awry, things I didn't mean to say and things I should have said. In each case, I can still conjure up the feeling of my stomach dropping, a sweat breaking out, and the desperate desire to undo whatever had just been done, or unsay what had just accidentally been uttered.

That kind of vivid recall just isn't available to me for positive things. I remember them, but I can't recall the associated feelings. There are no flashes of what I was wearing, or the look on the other person's face. There is no panic at the imagined "foot in mouth" induced silence that befell once riotous conversation.

Does that mean regret is more powerful than pleasure? It seems like a grim prognosis, but it's possible. Or maybe it's because often the regret is directed at my behavior towards others and the positives are directed at me; and therefore frequently dismissed as inconsequential or less valid than the criticisms? Perhaps my own expectations for my behavior are so high that my disappointment at committing a faux paus automatically outweighs a colleague's "well done." Perhaps self-flagellation is more comfortable than "thank you."

I'd like to say that as I grow as a person this will change, but, currently, the cringe-worthy responses have a starring role. For the moment, I can only hope that the people I think I've wounded don't have the same clarity of memory, and that missed opportunities come around once again.

Some Fun on a Monday

I helped out with some short YouTube videos over the weekend, and I thought I'd share. And just remember, we kid because we love. Mostly.

Social Calendar

Every once in a while, I gaze into my closet in the hopes of seeing something that might actually fit me, or that will suddenly transform me into a 5 ft 10 inch super model. Neither wish is any closer to being granted. However, I have the sneaking suspicion that my wardrobe has a rather engaging social life, full of balls and parties every night (just like those awaiting Lydia Bennet with the officers in Brighton). For instance, I ran across this 50s/60s inspired cocktail dress while rummaging through the bedroom last evening.

I'm uncertain who was supposed to wear it, or where it was going, but it's very cute. Perhaps I was shopping in a fugue state and unaware that I'm usually much less formally attired while watching House Hunters? Perhaps someone younger and more playful bought it, and it has been buried in a time capsule for years? Of course, there is a possibility that I was having nightmares about being stuck on the set of Mad Men with nothing to wear, and quickly updated my wardrobe. In reality, the most likely explanation is that my closet is making its own decisions, and helpfully expelling in my direction hints about what my life should look like, rather than what it does.

That's fine. But it should be warned that if the next thing out the door is a wedding dress, I'm torching it and starting over.

The Thoughts in my Head

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the thoughts in my head:

I need gray boots.

Do they still make gray boots?

The 80s were a great time for gray boots.

Everyone had gray boots in the 80s.

I miss the 80s.

 

I feel like my mental capacity might be diminishing ever so slightly.

True Story

True Story
(aka Things About Me That Would Surprise Absolutely No One)

When I was young, I could not watch soap operas without running out of the room when the kissing started. You see, I understood that the people on television were actors and that what I saw on TV was not real. So, in my mind, because they were actors and not deeply in love, the kissing was wrong. You could not kiss someone you didn’t love (I’m not saying I still think this is true… but I might).

Then I started to rationalize: it would be ok, if they were wearing some sort of mouth guard. I remember staring very intently at some characters on One Life to Live in order to spot what was surely some sort of plastic wrap that would protect them from accidentally making mouth to mouth contact with someone they weren’t “with” in real life. Shockingly, I never found it. Those make-up artists are good.

Venice in the Afternoon

It was mid-morning of December 30^th when J and I emerged from the train in Venice. Watching the sun rise over the waters and feeling the not all together unpleasant breeze, we knew we had made the best decision possible. The day before we had been in Vienna—it was beautiful, but, as anyone can tell you, there are few places colder than Vienna in December, and we were in need of some rejuvenation. It didn't hurt that we also needed a night train. Light on cash and unable to return to our friend's apartment while her boyfriend "visited," it was an adventure too timely to reject.

As Venice woke up around us, we wandered over to the Grand Canal partaking in only the finest of breakfasts: fresh baked rolls and … Pepsi. What can I say; it's ubiquitous and easy to obtain no matter what language you are working in (and my Italian is so poor that I asked the train porter if he spoke English in what turned out to be junior high school Spanish without noticing the slip until he rolled his eyes). While probably only in the mid-50's, the rising sun gave off a welcome heat, as we took in the new city. We museum hopped much in the same way we had pub crawled not two weeks earlier—slowly, with reverence and with just a taste at each location (though I will admit to trying to absorb The Madonna and The Tempest into my brain so the memory would be vivid enough to revisit years later).

Late afternoon and the water began its siren call. We gleefully brought pizza to the dock and watched the flow from the Adriatic lap against the planks. I was at peace; something that seemed antithetical to the vagabond life I was experiencing, but there it was. Perhaps the openness of my countenance is what attracted him first, or maybe I radiated a kind of innocence that some men find appealing. It certainly wasn't my stylish attire—I was dressed for travel and warmth, not seduction. Still, when he approached with his friend, my confusion was tempered with amusement, and I found myself flattered.

He was an artist. His friend was a professor (though he didn't teach). I'd estimated he was in his early 50s. Dapper in the way of very successful Italian men, his gallery tales told in halting English were charming. Apparently, he was moved by me; so much so that he grabbed the empty pizza box from between us, in order to begin his creation immediately. My visage had inspired him to take pen to pizza box and craft a portrait of a traveler. Much to my increasing amusement, he used J's head as a table. I'm not certain she found it as entertaining. Then again, she was used to being the center of male attention more than I (she was willowy with flame red hair—quite striking even in travel gear). Perhaps he sensed this as he kept telling her not be jealous of his attentions as he continued to draw. He kept telling me to sit up.

I'll have to say, as encounters go, it was unique. He used the two grease spots to form my eyes, so I was beginning to look a bit cross-eyed in the portrait, but I could tell he was moving swiftly to flesh out the version of me he wanted the world to see. It was a natural evolution for him to invite us back to the gallery. It only momentarily startled his friend, but I'm sure the professor was used to having the artist offer to bring women back to his gallery to see his work. Other than his interest in me, there really hadn't been anything untoward, and yet I began to second guess the plan.

He asked if I was Italian, and if I had family or friends in the area. It could have been idle curiosity, but I started to get the feeling that he was checking to see if anyone would miss us if we didn't make our train. He looked deep into my eyes and told me that he was taken with me. He told me he was Italian and didn't need me because he could have any woman he wanted, but that he was honoring me, and I shouldn't be frightened. I looked into his eyes—a bit dazed by it all as he began to speak the words every woman longs to hear: "You aren't beautiful. You have no figure. You are nothing, and no one has made you more famous than I have just made you."

Much to his dismay, and growing irritation, I cut off the discussion of what wine (and other things) he would introduce me to with a quickly invented train schedule conflict (and a silent vow to avoid that particular canal area if I was to ever return). Our departure was… swift.

And that's what happens when I meet a man on vacation.

One of Those Internet Surveys

I haven't sat down with one of these random internet surveys in a while. Lucky you! Now, let's see…

1. Do you do anything in private that would shock your friends?
   LOL! Oh yeah, but probably not what this question had in mind. It's Broadway up in here. Seriously, the door closes, and I'm singing, dancing and graciously accepting the roses thrown at my feet. I'm really a dynamic performer and have quite a career in my mind.
   
2. First thing you notice about the opposite sex?
   Them running away.
   
3. Strangest thing you've seen on Twitter?
   That's difficult because I see a lot of strange things on Twitter. For instance, I think it's incredibly strange when porn stars follow me (and also, could you please stop putting your vagina in your profile icon—ick). I will say that I just ran across a twitter profile called @duchovnysdick (it showed up in one of those helpful "people you might want to follow" kind of twitter suggestions). After I stopped laughing from pure shock, I will admit that I clicked on it. I had this perverse idea that someone had created a twitter profile that would tweet as though his penis was actually chatting (sort of a variation on the dogs chatting with each other). Sadly, it was not what I thought it was.
   
4. Ever been given an engagement ring?
   Screw you.
   
5. First friend you'd call if you won the lottery?
   I would have to say Pen because I feel like she would take an immediate sick day to drive to Sacramento with me (and protect the ticket from poachers). Secretly, my second call would be to Colin Firth's agent. With that kind of money, I could cast him something and actually pay his quote. It might end up being the most expensive web series ever, but damn it, it would be worth a shot.
   
6. Best kisser?
   On the planet? I'm not sure. If I were friskier, I'd take a survey. As it is, I'm going to go with Clooney. He's had some practice, and he looks like he knows what he's doing by now.
   
7. One thing you never leave the house without?
   Underwear. Apparently, this puts me in the minority here in Los Angeles.
   
8. Do long distance relationships work?
   Yes. The less I see of the guy, the greater the chances are of it lasting.
   
9. Who sleeps with you every night?
   The ghost of opportunities past seems to be joining me more and more.
   
10. Sleep with or without clothes?
    With. Nobody needs to see me naked, including me.
    
11. Have you ever internet stalked anyone?
    My lawyer would not characterize my activities that way, no.
    

Your turn.

2012

As befitting any situation where I make great plans, the end of 2011 saw me not being uber-productive in anticipation of 2012, but rather vomiting for several days. Unlike Bridget Jones who could claim hangover status as her reasoning, I ended up with the stomach flu (I blame every single person on my flight back to Los Angeles, including that baby—reasonable or not). Joy. BUT I am determined to find the bright side of the situation. For instance:

1. I wanted to lose all that extra holiday weight (mission accomplished)
   
2. I wanted to be able to fit into my new clothes (mission accomplished)
   
3. I wanted to be well-rested going into the new year (nothing like not being able to move for three days to accomplish that one)
   
4. I wanted to catch up on all the season finales stored in my DVR (check—do you know how hard it was not to be spoiled?!)
   
5. The X-Files: Fight the Future was on Cinemax this morning, and normally I'd be compelled to be productive or festive instead (thankfully, I got to kick back and hear "you made me a whole person" once again—swoon)
   

See! Not a total loss. I am a tiny bit concerned that my body was reacting to the consideration of joining www.itsjustlunch.com dating service right before the vomiting began, but I'm going to stick with plane cooties.

In an effort to stop focusing on the tumultuous stomach, I've started reviewing my annual New Year's Resolutions. Last year my resolutions were pretty short and were headlined by one item: "Quit job." Well, I got to check that one off the list. Oddly enough "get job" isn't on this year's list, though my year of wandering and pondering will be over at the end of April. That's not to say that my list isn't career oriented—it is. In fact, this year is one of the few years that the list does not include a single body, dating or lottery winning goal (not that those things aren't still swirling around my mind). Instead, this year focuses on specific elements of what I want to do: projects I want to pursue, people with whom I want to work and writing opportunities I wish to pursue.

My success rate with these things is mixed, but in an effort to guarantee success, I succumbed to the vision board encouragements of a friend. In fact, she led a vision boarding activity just before the holidays. My board is a bit sparse. That's either because my vision is limited, or my goals are focused (let's go with that last one). What did make me laugh was the section of the board dedicated to projecting how people see you. My board has words like "smart," "fascinating," "genius," and "powerful," instead of words/images like "sexy" or "desirable" in any possible connotation. We may have narrowed down why I never date.

As you all dive headlong into 2012, did you make any resolutions? What is your normal success rate?

Happy New Year!

As An Aside

You know the "must do skin allergy test 48 hours before coloring hair" warning that shows up here and there on the packaging (and by here and there, I mean on the front and back of the box, on both of the top flaps and in the instructions)? Well, I didn't have 48 hours, so I quite reasonably thought, "Probably not that important."

Totally. Important.

Yep, Just Like the Picture

I'm going to color my hair right now. I'm feeling confident. I can read directions. How hard can it be?

 

Step 1: Smile calmly and think benevolent thoughts while staring into mirror just like woman in picture.

No problem. I'm smiling. I'm in a zen place. I've also removed the bathroom rug and my shirt just in case there is a tiny drip during this "oh so easy, anyone can do it" process.

 

Step 2: Twist cap, pierce other cap and mix the dye together by shaking.

Alrighty. Just a little overzealous in the cap removal process, but it didn't really spill, and now I've squeezed the daylights out of some type of hair color into the mixing bottle. Feel a little bit like the girl on the "Shake Weight" commercial. Must check directions to find out how long I'm supposed to shake this thing. "Shake well." Hmmm. My arm is getting really tired, and I'm pretty sure the tip of the bottle just pierced my plastic glove. Must not give up.

 

Step 3: Evenly part your hair with bottle tip and apply color from root through ends of hair.

In the picture, the thick color streaks are zig zagging down this woman's hair as though her head was some sort of blue diamond ski run. And yes, she's still smiling—a symbol of ease and comfort to all. In the meantime, I can't really see the dye because when I part the hair with the tip of the bottle, the dye goes under the hair, but I'm trying to use my left hand to sort of pat the color down into the hair while squeezing the color out with my right. All of this would be much more successful if my hair wasn't quite this long because all this "gentle layering" of color is starting to turn my shoulders and arms purple. Not entirely purple—just gigantic slashes of purple, really. Also, should I be alarmed that it's purple? Is praline normally purple? I don't think so.

 

Step 3: Make sure that your hair is completely saturated with even amounts of color.

I can't see the back of my head. Why didn't I realize that I can't see the back of my head? How important is it that the color in the front isn't on 20 minutes longer than the color in the back? I'm twisting and turning trying to get a glimpse of my hair in the back—which naturally means that the slices of color are now on the walls and mirror as the strands go along for the ride. What if I found another mirror? I could put up another mirror so I could see the back. If only the hand mirror wasn't in the back of the cupboard in the hallway. Clearly, not worth the risk, I continue to pat copious amounts of strangely congealing purple goo in hopes of reaching the elusive saturation point.

 

Step 4: Wait 10 minutes—15 minutes for stubborn gray hair.

Ten minutes from when I started or from when I gave up adding color? Just in case, I'm going to leave it on an extra five or ten…

 

Step 5: Cup a small amount of warm water onto your hair and massage.

I got this one. I have a hair washing attachment in my shower. Also, I turned it on before I started this process. HA! Take that for forward thinking. Unfortunately, as I open the shower door (which I had to close because the spray was getting everything wet), I notice that I'm leaving more purple hand-prints everywhere. Also, I sort of forgot about the small amount of water part. That's probably the only real explanation for the rivulets of color running over the tile (though it's beginning to look like I stabbed Barney). Now what was I supposed to do? Oh, right massage. Got it.

 

Step 6: Rinse until water runs clear.

This might have worked better if I had been in the shower at the start. I'm standing here in soaking sweats watching the attachment swing wildly. Clearly, all is not lost. I can just get into the shower right now. Anyone ever try removing soaked clothes and underthings without using your hands (which are… wait for it… still covered in dye gloves)? Not easy. Also, quick question, how do you know if the water is running clear if your eyes are closed to keep from getting blinded by the dye? I guess you don't. I guess you just sort of stand here for a very long time and hope for the best.

 

Step 7: Something

Yeah. Just realized that I left the directions with the next step on the sink.

 

Step 8: I think it involves adding super conditioner for a length of time.

I'm not really sure what it says. I stepped out to grab the conditioner pack and the directions, which are written on paper, and things sort of went soggy because naturally I brought them into the shower with me. What? It's not like they were going to do me any good on the counter, and apparently my short-term memory is gone because I haven't retained any information on the future steps.

Just realizing that there is no clock in the shower so actually knowing the duration of the conditioning phase would not be all that useful anyway. Probably.

 

Step 9: Dry hair and style normally

If only there hadn't been so much standing water on the floor…

 

New Year's Resolution: Never again fail to make hair appointment with skilled professional.

Mad Procrastinating Skills

Some people procrastinate by cleaning the house, rearranging furniture (I do that one), or staring blankly at the television. 

I had one task for the day: grocery shopping. Now, I loathe grocery shopping, but I understand it is a relatively necessary evil-- unless Brad from WebVan re-emerges. Oh, Brad. Anyway, when I roused myself this morning, I glared at the world and resigned myself to my fate. But then the devil on my shoulder (who looks remarkably like my friend Pen) whispered, "Or you could go to Santa Barbara for breakfast."

Hmmm five minute drive to get a necessary chore accomplished, or spend an hour and a half winging my way north-- which would win out? Soooo difficult.

And as I sit outside on the sidewalk at Cafe Shell listening to Christmas music and basking in the warm late November air, I do try to feel some remorse for my lack of productivity. I'll fail, of course, but I'll keep trying...just as soon as I finish my pancakes.

Vista for a Friday

I stood on this vista point near Solvang yesterday, and I thought to myself:

This is amazing.

This is beautiful.

I feel so incredibly free.

I'm alone here on this outlook communing with nature.

I'm just going to stand here alone and breathe this in.

Alone... and it's a really severe drop off this breathtaking cliff.

In fact, no one would hear me scream if I fell, or if I was pushed by someone lurking in the lush and glorious foliage.

Which is why I'm going to walk back to my car quickly under this extraordinarily blue sky.

Ahem. Look, I said I left my problems at home as I drove north, not my personality.

A Step Behind

I think that the most successful people are not always the most innovative so much as the people best able to communicate why people need this new product, service or concept that has likely existed in other forms. Sadly, I'm always a step behind. For instance, the other night I mentioned to Pen that someone needed to create a dating service for finding single doctors. Naturally, as I planned my new venture and ultimate world domination, my quick Google search landed me on singledoctors.com. Apparently, I'm not the only one who thought it would be a good idea, and someone else clearly got there first.

Today, while loitering outside of Pink Taco waiting for my cohorts in chips and salsa diving, I stood mesmerized at the doors of The Container Store. I love the idea of this place. My brain shuts down if I have too many days of disorganization so every time I look at this store, I think that the key to my success is quite clearly more bins. How can I continue to function as a human being without the benefit of a panty box? And not just one—how will I know if I have black panties without having a box that is clearly labeled black panties? Sure, I could look, but that is such a time waster. You can't have undergarments mingling all willy-nilly. That's madness!

My writing would obviously flow much more smoothly if I could only have each and every one of the desk/contact/paraphernalia office organizers. It's the only thing holding me back! Well, perhaps not, but when I'm standing in that store, I'm absolutely convinced of it—enamored by the mere thought of it. Apparently the promise of order is the most powerful aphrodisiac you can offer me. Gentlemen of Los Angeles, you might want to keep this in mind.

Beyond my potential seduction by a Don Juan promising a neat closet for all eternity, the most fascinating thing about this is the enormous success of an entire industry based on expensive boxes and clothing hangars. There are organizational experts who have been working steadily for more than a decade. There are shows on HGTV (and similar type networks) to explain how to do this (I know this because I'm unemployed and watching them). Oprah had specials on it (and then there were spin-offs of those shows and spin-offs of those shows).

In the face of all of this, I just keep thinking, "Why on earth didn't I think of this first?" and "How do I become one of these experts?" I'm uncertain of my next step, but I have a feeling it's going to involve the purchase of a Stockholm Paper Drawer (ooh, those are pretty, and useful, and Merry Christmas to me!).

 

Assertiveness and the Lady Syndrome

As will be a surprise to absolutely no one, I have difficulty being assertive in certain situations. At work, I had no problem expressing my opinion in relation to work matters. I had confidence in my abilities. Unfortunately, in social or personal situations, I am often unable to express myself. While I did go to an all girls school for six years, it wasn't a charm school (either in the etiquette sense, or the spy sense), so I really don't think that I suffer from the "ladies don't…" syndrome (though I do think that I have a propriety veil in social situations that would seem staid and reserved to others).

It's not just that I am invisible (or make myself invisible) in social situations; it's that I often don't stand up for myself. I don't make demands. I don't tell people what I want, and I certainly don't take it. Rather than risk the confrontation, I remove myself from the situation… most of the time. While this approach has always made sense to me in the past, I'm finding that it's less practical in a city like Los Angeles which is filled with people who will step up and ask for what they want and damn the consequences. These people make the connections, take the meetings, and are forward enough to offer their skills. In a sea of people, I can't picture myself ever saying, "No, look at me!" I stand in a corner and hope that someone notices how intriguingly gifted I must be (funny how this approach works poorly in both dating and future employment situations).

Having recognized this tendency, I started scouring the web for assertiveness training seminars. Most I found were part of management training. This was not wildly helpful—again, I'm assertive when it comes to work, just not when it comes to being my own advocate. I'm convinced that this is one of the reasons that many writers have agents: we're great in a room alone with a keyboard, but take us out into the world where we have to sell ourselves (or at least our ideas), and our more internal natures become hindrances rather than assets.

I even checked out actual charm schools (see this fascinating post about the Sears Discovery Charm school: http://www.missabigail.com/advice/beauty-and-charm/2011/01/sears-discovery-charm-school-introduction-to-the-1972-edition/) to see if enhancing my ability to carry on inane conversation with strangers might be the key. When that didn't pan out, I literally Googled "talking to strangers" and landed here: http://www.pickthebrain.com/blog/the-shy-persons-guide-to-talking-to-strangers/ Interesting, but it turns out I don't fear strangers, so much as I often find them frustrating and tiring (though I did like the idea that everyone is a learning experience, and do believe that many people are actually out to pillage my village).

I decided to start slowly rather than immediately trying for round two of the networking follies. I've started to be more social with people I actually know (and like). Through them I've started to acclimate myself to meeting one or two new people through clubs, or other events. One or two people I can handle—50 people make me shut down (to be honest, 5 new people make me shut down). And as silly as it sounds, I've taken one of the charm school ideas to heart—I have to start dressing like someone who is a capable adult worthy of notice. This is difficult in a city like Los Angeles where t-shirts and jeans are normal even in offices (well, not the one I used to work in, but in many others). I don't want to show up to casual events in a semi-formal, but I have started focusing on the image I present to the world. Pen and I jokingly refer to this as my social experiment: make-up on, hair done, something with style on the body when I'm out in public (and no, I don't mean George Clooney draped over me, although…). Only time will tell if this moves me forward into the "force to be reckoned with" category. It's a start.

The Books Around Me

At a recent wine club gathering (look at me being social!), the conversation turned to books we've read, ones we should have read and the "classics" that have disappointed. For instance, I can't figure out why Wuthering Heights, Portnoy's Complaint, Lady Chatterley's Lover, or The French Lieutenant's Woman are absolute musts, though I have sneaking suspicion that Meryl Streep has something to do with at least one of them. Innovation could be a culprit with Lady Chatterley's Lover—it was certainly shocking subject matter for the time. I think the novelty of style has a lot to do with Portnoy's Complaint, as it was probably quite unique when it was written. While critics at the time found it to be one of the funniest works of American fiction, with the passage of time and much duplication of style, it lost something for me. And yes, I realize that if I like Californication, I should enjoy one of its literary predecessors. All I can say is that watching the antics allows for the touching and human elements to shine through and bring balance to the absurdly lewd tone in a way that isn't always possible for me to experience as a reader. Now while I think my opinions are obviously correct, I do recognize that others may find my favorites somewhat less than inspiring, as well (fools).

What many of us did admit was that when faced with the choice between picking up one of the unread, older classics and pop literature (or chick lit, in my case) that we tended toward the latter. It left me wondering why that is the case. Is the ease of language the reason? Are the topics of modern novels more relatable? It isn't the happy ending—pop literature has its share of tragedy. What makes reading The Thing About Jane Spring (which I think is quite subversive, actually) less valued to the BBC than Jane Eyre (which I actually love)? I used to think it was the test of time, but as you can see from the list below, Harry Potter novels haven't been around for very long. Is it commercial success? There is no denying that an entire generation of kids (and, admit it, adults) have embraced them, and anything that brings people back to reading should be applauded (unless they involve sparkly vampires, and then I'm just too old to get it). What makes a novel a classic?

When the BBC began the debate on the top 100 books that everyone should read (http://www.bbc.co.uk/arts/bigread/top100.shtml), they claimed that most had only read six of the top 100. I'm happy to say that from the sampling of the room, we had far surpassed that (go team), but there are still many I have not yet tackled. Conquering the list became a goal of mine two years ago, and with this year off, I've rededicated myself to exploring the "must reads." Last night I grabbed Brave New World. Aldous Huxley, you have been warned.

This is the most recent version of the list that I could find. I don't give myself points for films I've seen if I haven't also read the book (for instance, I've seen Dracula countless times, but never read the novel). Unlike the BBC, I give half points: I've read much of Shakespeare's work, but not every piece (and I thought it was interesting that Hamlet received a solo mention at the end). Full disclosure: I have only read 52 of these to date (and still can't believe they didn't choose On the Beach for Shute instead). How did you score?

1 Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen 
2 The Lord of the Rings - JRR Tolkien 
3 Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte 
4 Harry Potter series - JK Rowling 
5 To Kill a Mockingbird - Harper Lee 
6 The Bible 
7 Wuthering Heights - Emily Bronte 
8 Nineteen Eighty Four - George Orwell 
9 His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman 
10 Great Expectations - Charles Dickens 
11 Little Women - Louisa M Alcott 
12 Tess of the D'Urbervilles - Thomas Hardy 
13 Catch 22 - Joseph Heller 
14 Complete Works of Shakespeare 
15 Rebecca - Daphne Du Maurier 
16 The Hobbit - JRR Tolkien 
17 Birdsong - Sebastian Faulks
18 Catcher in the Rye - JD Salinger 
19 The Time Traveler's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger 
20 Middlemarch - George Eliot  
21 Gone With The Wind - Margaret Mitchell 
22 The Great Gatsby - F Scott Fitzgerald 
23 Bleak House - Charles Dickens 
24 War and Peace - Leo Tolstoy 
25 The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy - Douglas Adams 
26 Brideshead Revisited - Evelyn Waugh
27 Crime and Punishment - Fyodor Dostoyevsky
28 Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck 
29 Alice in Wonderland - Lewis Carroll 
30 The Wind in the Willows - Kenneth Grahame 
31 Anna Karenina - Leo Tolstoy 
32 David Copperfield - Charles Dickens 
33 Chronicles of Narnia - CS Lewis 
34 Emma - Jane Austen 
35 Persuasion - Jane Austen 
36 The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe - CS Lewis 
37 The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
38 Captain Corelli's Mandolin - Louis De Berniere
39 Memoirs of a Geisha - Arthur Golden 
40 Winnie the Pooh - AA Milne 
41 Animal Farm - George Orwell 
42 The Da Vinci Code - Dan Brown 
43 One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez 
44 A Prayer for Owen Meaney - John Irving 
45 The Woman in White - Wilkie Collins 
46 Anne of Green Gables - LM Montgomery 
47 Far From The Madding Crowd - Thomas Hardy 
48 The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood 
49 Lord of the Flies - William Golding 
50 Atonement - Ian McEwan
51 Life of Pi - Yann Martel 
52 Dune - Frank Herbert 
53 Cold Comfort Farm - Stella Gibbons
54 Sense and Sensibility - Jane Austen 
55 A Suitable Boy - Vikram Seth
56 The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
57 A Tale Of Two Cities - Charles Dickens 
58 Brave New World - Aldous Huxley 
59 The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time - Mark Haddon 
60 Love In The Time Of Cholera - Gabriel Garcia Marquez 
61 Of Mice and Men - John Steinbeck 
62 Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov 
63 The Secret History - Donna Tartt 
64 The Lovely Bones - Alice Sebold 
65 Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas 
66 On The Road - Jack Kerouac 
67 Jude the Obscure - Thomas Hardy 
68 Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding 
69 Midnight's Children - Salman Rushdie
70 Moby Dick - Herman Melville 
71 Oliver Twist - Charles Dickens 
72 Dracula - Bram Stoker 
73 The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett 
74 Notes From A Small Island - Bill Bryson
75 Ulysses - James Joyce 
76 The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath 
77 Swallows and Amazons - Arthur Ransome
78 Germinal - Emile Zola
79 Vanity Fair - William Makepeace Thackeray 
80 Possession - AS Byatt
81 A Christmas Carol - Charles Dickens 
82 Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
83 The Color Purple - Alice Walker  
84 The Remains of the Day - Kazuo Ishiguro 
85 Madame Bovary - Gustave Flaubert 
86 A Fine Balance - Rohinton Mistry
87 Charlotte's Web - EB White 
88 The Five People You Meet In Heaven - Mitch Albom 
89 Adventures of Sherlock Holmes - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle 
90 The Faraway Tree Collection - Enid Blyton
91 Heart of Darkness - Joseph Conrad 
92 The Little Prince - Antoine De Saint-Exupery 
93 The Wasp Factory - Iain Banks
94 Watership Down - Richard Adams 
95 A Confederacy of Dunces - John Kennedy Toole
96 A Town Like Alice - Nevil Shute
97 The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas 
98 Hamlet - William Shakespeare 
99 Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - Roald Dahl 
100 Les Miserables - Victor Hugo 

 

If you don't like this list, try: http://www.jonkinsman.com/lists/list.php?id=55 This list is from Penguin Classics, and while you will see many books overlapping, it does give you a slightly different take. I have much more work to do with this list—I've only read 40.

While I'm not certain that I will manage all of the novels I have missed before the year is over (I could be swept off my feet by a handsome stranger any time now), I'm willing to give it a shot.

 

New Endeavor

Part of the new life/get a life year plan involved a little bit of travel and a lot of exploration. To go along with that plan, I've started a second blog that will focus on those travel plans, sights and sounds. If you are curious, this is where it will be: http://openroadahead.wordpress.com/

Never fear, I will still be posting here! In fact, I have an event on the 18th that might just give my social skills a test. Stay tuned.

Destination: Anywhere

Blue skies, The Commitments on the radio and open road in front of me...

Destination: Anywhere
East or West, I don't care

And I Got Here How?

I'm in a bar in a hotel in San Diego. I'd like to be able to tell you why I'm here, but that part isn't quite so clear to me. 

It started innocently enough, as these things often do. I was having lunch with Pen, and we were having a discussion about passion. I'm reading a host of books right now about new careers and finding the vocation that makes you jump out of bed with unrepressed joy most days (not period days, of course, because nothing is that good). Much to my continued dismay, I don't seem to have a passion for anything. I have lots of interests. I have vague intrigues, but nothing that drives me. Worse, I tend to fall into things that occupy my time because I'm good at them, rather than for the love of them-- and then stay doing them for 16 years.

Travel is one of those interests. Or rather destinations are of interest. Exploration of new places is an interest. The actual traveling I could do without-- planes, trains and automobiles all have their extreme downsides. If you could convince me that my molecules would all end up in the same place in the same and appropriate order, I might be on board with teleporting. But as it stands now, my options all seem limited and annoying. Still, there is a wanderlust in me that is hard to deny.

I've done my best to suppress it. I once hit 13 countries in one year. But then my passport was exhausted, and my brain and body stuck to moving households within the continental U.S. Even that skidded to a stop once I got to L.A. Despite the occasional foray, I've largely remained mired in my internal dialogue rather than my external wanderings. 

Apparently, I've had enough navel gazing. I mentioned reading about the gaslamp district in San Diego to Pen. We agreed it sounded like fun. I'd like to say there was a well-thought out plan after that moment-- something premeditated, at least. Instead, I took my leftovers, and settled into my apartment for a rousing game of "what do I do now?"

Two and a half hours later I was settling myself into a hotel in San Diego. Just because I could, it was there and there was no reason not to do it. And now I'm reclining on the rooftop bar, writing this blog, sipping my Malbec and agreeing with my people (i.e. Strangers watching the baseball game in the bar) that St. Louis has made a lot of errors in this game.

I imagine I'll be home soon. Probably. Possibly. But I guess you never know.

Kate

Rain Delay

On a normal day from my past life, I would be very unhappy right about now. It is raining in Los Angeles—this never bodes well. People can't drive in it. I don't park close to my apartment, and I really have lost my tolerance for being out in it. If this had happened a year ago, I'd be slogging my way to my car, bitter that I couldn't wear jeans to work, trying to keep my heels from being destroyed, lamenting the early hour and wishing that I could curl up on the couch with a book and a blankie.

This year… DOING IT.

Forgive me for taking a moment and thinking "well, alright!" thoughts. I'm absolutely certain I'll be struck down with the plague for being able to enjoy the sound of the rain outside and wearing sweats. But… DOING IT.

Lest you be concerned that your solid, recent advice has been ignored, fear not. I am slowly working my way around the plan. I even went to the grocery store yesterday (shockingly painful, though it was). And because I did not procrastinate, I now have this day where I do not have to venture out in order to find a way to feed myself (and the poor pizza delivery guy will also not have to brave the hazards to find me).

In addition to getting down to the serious business of exploring my options, I'm trying a new mental approach. Don't worry—it's not very "Secrety." It's gratitude. I know this sounds outrageously positive for me, but I'm going to give it a shot. I am incredibly lucky to have this opportunity (not just the staying home when it rain parts, but the year off, in general). So many people have told me that they wish they had the ability to take a year and just do something else—even people who are relatively happy with their lives. While at the end of this year, I'm really going to need to have landed somewhere with an income, for right now this is a chance I should be grateful for having.

So, I'm going to try this approach and see what happens.

I give it a week.

Kate

To Done

I'm not going to lie. When I took the year off, I had a lot of vague notions about how the year would go. Clearly, twenty minutes after I quit, I would be offered my own television series, movie franchise or multi-book publishing deal. A month later, I was supposed to be voted most powerful producer in all the land. I still wouldn't be able to afford a house in Los Angeles, but I'd be getting close to it. A month after that, my husband (George Clooney) and I would start our new studio. I was willing to allow for some deviations in the length of time this would take, and the exact details of my success (perhaps I was voted "most powerful producer in my apartment"). However there was one thing I was absolutely certain of: I would have nothing on my "to do" list.

That assertion was completely false.

What I have found is that the "to do" list is a lot like a purse. The bigger the purse, the more crap you carry around. Seriously, I carry a hard drive around right now. No good reason for that other than the fact that it went in there once, and there is room for it. Likewise, the more time you have the more tasks occupy that time. I thought I would be bored. I was wildly incorrect. I'm as busy now as I was before I quit, I'm just focused on different things. Sadly, those things don't pay me right now, but that's a different issue for another day.

In reality, the "to do" list just grows—and not just in volume, but in complexity. For instance, in addition to "get groceries" I now have "write great American novel" along with the slightly more reachable goal of "post blog." I think the theory is that now that I have all of this time, I should be able to reach loftier goals. The list now resembles a combined daily tasks, New Year's resolutions and grab bag of fate manifesto. I can't decide if having "get oil change" and "find meaning of life" should be on the same list (bonus points to all of you who just yelled out "42"), but the moment they share space. Unfortunately, rather than rolling up my sleeves and really trying to get some of these tasks off my list (Chapter 1 would be nice), I'm gripped by inertia. I've fallen back into the same old pattern: if I have every option in the world, I choose nothing. If I have a million things I could be/should be doing, I only do the things I absolutely must do to survive (and even then grocery shopping will be a last resort).

I'm curious if any of you have ever faced a similar motivation problem. How did you kick start your progress? I've made the big gesture: I quit my job. I took charge: "I am woman, hear me roar." Except with me, it really has been more like a whisper.

Kate (watching House Hunters)

P.S. Fallacy #2: "If I didn't have a job, I'd be really fit because I'd work out every day." LMAO such a kidder.